


Dana Scully's Guide To Dating

by LilydaleXF



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s07e21 Je Souhaite, F/M, Post-Episode: s07e21 Je Souhaite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 01:03:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12332376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilydaleXF/pseuds/LilydaleXF
Summary: "Je Souhaite" post-ep. When the movie ends, Mulder and Scully have a little chat in his apartment.





	Dana Scully's Guide To Dating

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Anjou for kind beta, yet again.

"I should get going," Scully says as the _Caddyshack_ credits roll on the TV screen and Mulder's hands fumble around her.

"It's not all that late, Scully."

"It's late enough."

"That's why Friday's date night. No early morning work."

Mulder's not looking at her as she turns to him with one brow raised. At some point in the evening the remote control got lost in the folds of the large blanket draped over both their legs outstretched to his coffee table. He's been searching for it to stop the movie, with little success.

"This isn't a date, Mulder."

The movie clicks off, and the TV screen's glow slowly dims. The fish tank provides the only light in the room now.

Mulder's weight on the couch shifts as he leans over to drop the remote on the table. Still not looking at her, he questions, "It's not?" He flops back dramatically, landing hard against the back of the couch as his head rolls to the side to look at her. His face is blank, but his eyes are open wider than they normally are.

"No," she says simply.

He says nothing in return, just continues staring at her.

"It's not," she affirms as a creeping feeling of needing to defend herself runs down her body. He should innately understand without her having to say anything. That's their way. But things between them have been changing in ways she's not used to, and she's certain Mulder isn't either. She may not quite understand what is happening, but at least she knows that something _is_ happening. Mulder knows too, but he's fallen here on tradition and the expected, all but calling the night a date, which is in no small part why she knows he knows because "tradition" and "the expected" are not Mulder's usual driving forces. They're hers. Or at least they used to be.

She's surprised herself by having an immediate reaction to the idea of a date, but it's not a surprise chased by doubt. This is right.

She clarifies to Mulder, "It's just me being with you."

"On a Friday night," he adds incredulously.

"Yes."

"At my apartment, in the dark, slightly buzzed, tangled in a blanket."

"Yes."

"Watching a movie, sharing popcorn. You even shared – no, stole – my last beer."

"Guilty."

"We're sitting so close our thighs are touching."

"Yes."

"You're fairly happy."

"Indeed."

"I'm no expert, Scully," he says as his head leans just a tad closer to her as if she wouldn't otherwise hear his conspiratorial whisper from one foot away, "but I think that may be a textbook date." He leans back.

"Pffffffff," she replies, raising her hand a few inches off where it was resting on the blanket and fluttering it a few times in dismissal.

She doesn't say anything else, and it's bothering him, she can tell. He's always been very good at questioning people with words and looks to suss out answers, and she can tell he is bothered by getting very little verbiage from her and as a result an implication that the night's not what he thought it was for both of them.

It's comforting, seeing him like this. He's so rarely unsure. That she can ever shift him into doubt is a thrill. Every time. Still. For it to be a shift focused on her, not on a case or a crime or a conspiracy, makes it more so. Even as she knows it's a bit wrong to take pleasure in his discomfort and confusion, she can't help it.

She quirks her head slightly to see him in less peripheral shadow. He looks entirely nonplussed, his face statue still and chiseled. He is so clearly confused.

"Like I said, it's just me being with you, Mulder. And you being with me. We just _are_."

"Just are," he parrots.

"Yes. We just are now. Have been for a while, actually. And 'we' don't need dates. Don't you think?"

It's the most she's said out loud since before the movie started. They look at each other silently. Mulder's fingers fuss with the pilled material of his blanket. It's lived in, warm and loved.

"So it's not a date."

It doesn’t sound like a question, but Scully speaks as if it is. "No."

"It's just us in my apartment."

"Yes. With booze."

"And a gopher."

"I think it's best if we forget about the gopher."

He smiles to match hers.

"That movie, Mulder," she says as she leans her head on his shoulder. "That movie was not good."

"It had its moments."

"Maybe."

She feels his shoulder raise as his body perks in small triumph.

"Maybe some small sporadic moments," she clarifies. "Very small. I still pick the next movie."

His hand creeps toward hers on the blanket. She meets him partway, their fingers tangling in slow fluid movement like anemone tendrils in the ocean.

"Are we going to do that next movie now?"

"Mulder, it's late, and I am about to fall asleep. So no."

His hand finally stills, trapping hers with their fingers messily entwined. She squeezes ever so slightly and wonders if he felt it.

"You're going to drive home when you're about to fall asleep?"

She huffs out a small laugh. "As like most nights of my professional career."

He leans his head down to rest on top of hers. They sit still. She stares at their hands and marvels at them. Her steady, surgical hand should not fit comfortably at all in his large, manic paw, but here's the proof otherwise. She squeezes again and knows he felt it.

Speaking quietly, he asks, "Will you come back tomorrow?"

"Technically, it's already tomorrow."

"Hmmmm," he murmurs.

"So yes, I'll be here tomorrow."

"Yes you'll come back, or yes you're already here?"

She is much too tired for this.

"Mulder..."

"What? I'm just being technical. Like you."

"Mulder..."

"I'm just trying to be precise, to figure out--"

"Mulder," she interrupts. He has a point, and it's where the night has pointed all along.

He lifts up his head and looks at her, to which she does the same.

"Just go find me some pajamas."

He doesn't move or say anything, simply keeps looking at her with the same expression he had when she interrupted him. After a slow moment, he says, "Okay."

"Okay," she confirms.

She lifts up their linked hands and holds the back of his against her cheek and leans into it. His eyes drift shut. She starts to slowly rub his hand back and forth along her cheekbone, and whispers, "You have three wishes."

He smiles, eyes still closed. "None needed, Scully."

He's right.


End file.
